Of Blood and Wine
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: Title is symbolic. In a different time, in a different world: tyranny rules. Rebels clash and friends are enemies. I'm giving Chaucer a sister. Artistic License! Completely AU [dead...for now]
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I own not any of the characters that you happen to recognize from A Knight's Tale.

Rating: PG-13(May change, I haven't decided)

Nicholas de Vilance: Um...I believe this shall be my first "long-term" story on this site. This is an extremely alternate universe fic using A Knight's Tale characters because I am a bored panda. This may focus around a modernized Chaucer, but he is purely movie-based and should not at all be compared to the writer from the 1300's. The real Chaucer was a short, fat, balding man, I believe. The one portrayed by Paul Bettany is quite tall, skinny and very sexy. -ahem- Yes, you can ignore that last comment.

Dedication: I only write this because Matt completely--and utterly indirectly--influenced me to write this. I was hungering for inspiration, so he writes me a one sentence plot line--mechanically incorrect and in bad hand-writing, but I forgive him. It had to do with a rather "Romeo & Juliet" type love story. Then, out of that, I some how decided to write a story about violence and death and...well. I won't get ahead of myself. I can't make promises I probably won't keep.

* * *

"What is it!"

Words disappeared in the vortex that was silence and darkness. There was just enough light for an owl to see by. Neither an echo returned nor a reply. Chains clinked through the blanket that was the black air. The sound was louder and clearer than the voice. Nothing made sense, pictures flashed through everything like blinding flashes of a flashlight. The silence shattered at the sound of a resounding laugh in the distance.

"What is it! Damn it tell me!"

Hating laughter, so amused with the insanity! Why won't it answer? What is the question? Blinding darkness engulfing with its hands gently taking the air. Sobbing blocked out the laughter slightly. Tearing at lungs and ears and hearts. There was no halt in the laughter, though. Laughter! Madness! I can't move my hands!…. my… throat… sob… choke … breathe… … weep… … … rest.

"What is it!"


	2. Chpt 1: Enter Geoff

Terror…there was always terror. There was always fear, hate and pain. Why? Why was there always this devilish contempt deep in his heart? In his soul… Was it the lives he took or the torments he endured? He could not tell. He could only see, through the darkness of his flat, the silent screams of innocent people. People? Creatures, if one would be fair. There was no innocence on this planet any longer. No body housed a soul, no skull a mind. Very few were worthy to call themselves human beings. The rebels, they had the right. His sister…

"Oh, Christ," he muttered, digging his fists in his already red eyes. Just the thoughts of his darling sister closed his throat and pulled the walls of his small bedroom in on him. Each wall was decorated with some sort of defilation that proved his release of bottled anger and sorrow. "Still," he said, "I suppose when things are like this one has the luxury of knowing it can't get worse." He'd grown accustom to talking to himself.

As he put his feet on the cold concrete floor and stood the cot beneath him let out a desperate screech as rusted metal scraped on rusted metal. A pair of faded, black jeans clung loosely to his thin legs and his feet were clad only in slip-on shoes with the sole worn almost through. He preferred to wear shirts that fitted his thin figure and ended up ripping the sleeves off for comfort. His profession demanded such freedom of movement.

His fingers finding the doorknob in the dark produced a click and a snap as the stubborn handle was forced to turn. A scent of rotting fabric and wet dog wafted in from his living room as the door swung open on squeaking hinges. There was a sad looking couch in that room that was slightly damp from the lack of insulation of the cold morning—this was the reason his bedroom had no windows. The small TV set was strictly for watching the news for updates on the politics of the world that he had been cursed to live in.

A hallway behind the couch housed a table with a phone and an empty vase. Beyond that was the kitchen, empty and clean. Never once, in his life in that apartment, did he wander into it. He chose, instead, to have his meals as fast food or something that he could eat out of a can.

He pulled on a sweater and stole over to the bookshelf that stood awkwardly next to the TV. There was a box, among the books that opened to reveal a nice, well-loved gun. He checked it and dropped it gently into his pocket before leaving his apartment. A little plaque on the outside of the door gave his address (incase any noise complaints need be filed) and his name: Geoffrey Chaucer.

* * *

Clouds of smoke were the permanent, inside flag that soared across the ceiling, rising from men's cigars, in the Underground. This club was named such because it was, in fact, underground. It was also, thought more surreptitiously, a meeting place for the organized group of rebels against the government. The lighting relied solely on the little lamp that hung from the high ceiling. It cast an infernal, reddish glow on all of the faces that sat before the bar counter. Watered-down beer was the only beverage that the owner could afford to buy on the black market because any record of the purchase would be a red flag to the government saying, "here we are! Come kill us all!"

Chaucer sat in a corner, observing. He'd been there many times, but had never said anything at the meetings. In fact, no one in the club could tell you in all honesty that they had heard his voice even once. There's a first time for everything. In the middle of a very heated debate between a blond man and a fat woman over what they could possibly do to overthrow the king (all of which was useless clamor and empty words) Geoff stepped close to the crowd and demanded attention.

"Good evening," he said his hands in his pockets. He felt a little tingle from the many glasses of beer he'd had that night and the only reason for his smile was that the smoke surrounding him smelt sweet enough for him to breath regularly. "I'm not a rebel, as you are. In fact, I'm here to tell you all that this fully senseless congregation of fools such as yourselves is illegal and that brings me to my point. You all are gathered her today for a funeral. Sadly, it is your own." He had counted to people to discover that, unless he'd missed some one, he'd have just enough bullets if he hit his mark with each person.

There was a silence for a while and everyone stared at him. The lamp overhead buzzed furiously in its duty of lighting the small bar. It was a small, narrow-face man that was first to speak up. "Who the hell do you think you are? You've no business threatening us like that."

Geoff sighed and took out his gun, switching it off safety. "Actually, I have quite a bit of business," he said, "it is, in fact, my profession, you could say. I am the King's personal assassin. And, as you are performing something that is quite illegal—" Some one tried to sneak past him without a sound. He fired his first shot and hit the escapee in the head. "—I am _well_ within my rights, and duty, to shoot you now and end this because, frankly, I can't stand to hear all this talk about taking action and so on and so forth when you all know that you're going to do nothing. People like me will continue to be the tyrants of the streets. You're not safe, yet you do nothing to change it but bicker amongst each other. You sad human beings." He raised his gun and the terror went through him again. _It doesn't matter,_ he told himself, _you've already killed one of them, they won't let you out alive anyway…kill or be killed._

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Nicholas de Vilance: Wow! I got a review for that. And here was I, thinking that it had sucked so bad that no one would take a second look at it. Well, here's my second chapter. I'll be trying to make them longer than this. Just wanted to get this here.


	3. Chpt 3: Afraid of the Dark

Nightmares had plagued the twelve-year-old for as long at he could remember. He knew these nightmares too well to ever even wish to sleep easy. Still, for his "training" he needed sleep. _They_ required that he sleep and if he didn't _they_ would make sure he didn't get a wink. _Get the coffee. Kill that squirrel. Do what you're told. _He wasn't allowed to have emotions. He wasn't allowed to think for himself. Yet through all this he had an escape. His refuge was his sister: Margaret Chaucer.

"Geoff!" Margaret cried from the dark door way as her eyes found her older brother in the dim red light that emitted from the eclipsed moon that shone through the window. She was only a year younger, but she was so naïve that she was thought to be only five years old. The door to Geoff's cubby of a room slammed as she ran to kneel by his side. She carefully touched the blood that was on the side of his face. "What happened?" She picked up his left hand that was bloody and twisted.

"Your dog," he said quietly—he tried to hide the fact that his hand hurt like hell when she moved it. "I was trying to save him. They…shot him because his leg was broken." He tried to force a sad smile as he looked into her teary eyes. "Now, now, don't you start crying." He reached up with his good hand and wiped tears as they rolled down her cheeks.

She cleared her throat and acted bigger than she felt. She felt tiny and compressed into a space that once her dog had occupied. All that was left was a hole. She rubbed her tears away viciously. She didn't like to cry in front of him. She knew it made him feel bad. "But are you all right?" she asked firmly, "They broke your fingers again."

"I got lucky this time," he said, "They only broke two. It's all right. It's just my left hand so I can still write your stories."

He realized she was examining his hand. He looked at the drying blood as it crusted between his fingers. The middle and index fingers were both blue and gnarled like old, arthritic joints. He noticed the revealed skin where once he had nails and pulled his hand away to prevent he seeing, but he was too late. "You're missing fingernails!" she exclaimed, horrified, "They ripped them off!"

"It's fine, Maggie," he insisted, "it doesn't hurt half as bad as it did before." He adjusted his back against his cot and cradled his bad hand carefully. He was beat up more than just his hand. His right eye was bruised and dark and there were quite a few nasty-looking marks on his chest. He had removed his shirt to try and wrap it around his bleeding hand. "Can you help me?"

She thought for a moment and then took the two sticks out of her hair and let it fall around her shoulders. She put them against his fingers and broke them to the right size. Then she tore a few strips from the shirt and bound the splints to his broken fingers. The red moon was lining the windowsill and bars with a bloody glow as she took the rest of his shirt and scraped away the dried blood on his forehead. Her job done, she leaned herself against him, the unshed tears from these horrifying images of his hand stinging her eyes. "Is it my fault?" she asked.

"No!" Geoff snapped, "Don't you dare think that!" He put his arm around her gently. He feared the arrival of his "teachers" at any moment. His sister was not allowed in his room. "I don't care that the dog was yours. I would've tried to help it anyway." He'd grown used to lying to make her feel better, even though it made him feel worse.

"It is my fault," she muttered, "Mother always said it was my fault. You would've had money if I hadn't been born. You could've lived with Mother and lived happily ever after if I hadn't come along."

"Shut up, Maggie," he commanded, "Stop being stupid." He felt her shoulder quiver with a sob that she was trying to hide. "Come on, don't cry. Want to hear a story?" He felt her nod against his chest. "Well, you remember the story of how the world began and the Sun made people to live on it so she wouldn't be lonely, right? As Sun observed her world and her People she was happy. People talked with Sun and praised Sun and appreciated Sun for her light. In return, Sun allowed People to do things with her power. Soon things were possible for People that they could never have thought of doing before. They built machines and technologies and empires to rule each other, but they didn't realize that their advancements were polluting the air. They didn't notice that Sun was getting dimmer as the air grew clouded with waste. They took Sun for granted, so Sun went away. Sun went away and a new body took the sky. This was Moon. His light was dimmer than Sun's and People couldn't use his type of power to work their machines. People began to lament and complain to Moon of their problems. Moon was a harsh tyrant towards People and ignored their requests to find Sun for them. When Sun finally did return, she and Moon fought over the world she had created. Eventually the battle was a draw. Moon agreed to split the world 50/50 and rule only the dark times that were night while Sun's light created day. Moon remained forever jealous of Sun's bond with her People. On nights like this, when Moon is dwelling on his lack of respect, you can see his face turn red with rage." He motioned towards the window where the moon was only half-visible over the sill.

"That's a silly story," she said with a yawn. "Why can't Sun and Moon just get alone? And why can't People rule their own world?"

He just shrugged and rubbed her back idly. She was sleeping after just a minute and a half of silence. He was not too far away from sleep, though he knew he shouldn't sleep. He didn't was to be caught off guard. He was already on thin ice because of the stunt he'd pulled with the dog. If _they_ caught him with her he'd really be in for it. Then, suddenly she was gone. His arms were empty. He found himself kneeling before an unadorned glass coffin with a light illuminating the base. Inside was the figure of a girl, forever frozen in an unconscious, timeless state. Her hair had long ago faded to gray and her nails were slightly blue. Just like always when this image came, Geoff tried to pound on the glass, tried to break it open and save his sister. His hand shot out, but didn't make contact.

* * *

Geoff was sweating profusely. He had thrown himself into a sitting position with the motion from his dream but his arm wasn't outstretched, as it usually was when he had that dream. He was aware that he wasn't in his bed in his apartment. He tried to pull his arm in front of him but both were bound tightly behind his back. He looked around him into a blinding darkness. He knew there were walls because his breathing was echoing very quietly against them. It was cold and the floor beneath him was hard and uncomfortable. His back felt as if he'd been lying there for some time.

"Hello?" he said quietly. His voice was swallowed in the endless silence. On the black screen of darkness he saw a flicker of light that he knew was in his mind. It disappeared and reappeared and replicated. Soon there were lights dancing around him. He lay back down and tried to ignore the phenomena about him. He could almost make out the corners of the ceiling in the blackness. Then, suddenly, the ceiling morphed into a face, frozen in a deaf scream. Geoff gave a loud shout of terror. He tried to slide himself on the floor away from the illusion—for that's what he knew it was. He didn't speak to it, he knew better. It was in ancient lore that if you talk to a mere illusion or nightmare it becomes real.

As his back met the wall nearest him, the face had dissipated. He was starring into the wall opposite him. He strained his eyes to see anything. He noticed an indentation in the wall that was shaped like a rectangle. A door, perhaps? He then saw a little box in the corner of the ceiling above it. "What is that?" he wondered aloud.

"Get away!" he heard himself yell. He was seeing something else now. Something he knew couldn't be there. He was seeing his little sister. She was eleven again and clad in a white nightgown. There was no light to illuminate her, she couldn't possibly be real.

"Come play, Geoff," she said, taking a step forward. Her little hand outstretched; her skin seemed to give off it very own heavenly light. "Come play."

He found himself staring in awe at her. He kicked at the ground with his legs and tried to scoot away from the apparition. "Stay away," he muttered, more to himself than the ghost that was approaching him. "You're not real. You're not real." Still, through all this he did not take his eyes off of her for a moment. And in the back his mind there was the tiniest hope that he was wrong, that she was real.

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Nicholas de Vilance: I promise, before anyone starts to get angry, Geoff's not crazy. It'll all be explained in the next chapter...


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